Eyess ๐๐๐ ๐๐ก๐๐ญ ๐๐จ๐๐ฌ ๐ข๐ญ ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐๐๐ง ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐๐
Notes on near-blindness
I almost lost my sight this week.
Lying in the fading light, images of eyes loomed large in my head.
As a teenager, I remember an art teacher showing me parts of Un Chien Andalou. A razor blade put to an eyeballโฆ its images erupted violently in my mind like what - the fuck - am I looking at?
I love a world where art can do that, where casual snuff doesnโt just appear on your Twitter timeline, but is crafted in glorious hyperreality.
Thereโs a squeamishness to eyes, the idea of them being touched, poked, prodded, having stuff poured in them, having them cut; the weird combination of their solidity, their ability to see infinite worlds, and yet, stillโฆ fragile, squishy and weird.
Thereโs plenty of horror to eyes. I always remembered Batailleโs Story of the Eye โ when I first read it years ago it had a similar effect โ connecting the gaze indelibly to voyeurismโฆ to look and to desire, to take what you want; and for an eye to be penetrated, or broken apart like an egg. When I revisited it recently, I found it a little flat; milk is for the pussy, kids raping kids โ maybe Iโm just getting jaded or too old, but it was all a littleโฆ on the nose.
Dali & Hitchcock created wonders of the subconscious, an elaborate dream sequence in Spellbound that unlocks the central mystery within a world of eyes. As he sleeps he solves the crime; a perfect synergy of waking and dream.
So dive in. Magritte thought of an eye as The False Mirror; surrealists loved eyes for their capacity to see into the inner world, an entry point to the subconscious. And also for their capacity โ writ large, vast, unseeing โ to unnerve.
Faced with the prospect of losing both eyes, or only one, I took encouragement from a lineage of blind creators โ Homer, Milton, Kahlo, Joyce, Goya, Borgesโฆ Makers who still wished to live, to see new possibilities, even if they couldnโt see. Borgesโ quote, on losing his sight, Now I can live my dreams with less distraction.
I remembered my father, whose own loss of sight left him in a half-world for years, perpetually uncertain what was real, and what was imagined.
Maybe it all was, or nothing.
Maybe I should have listened more closely to the stories he told of the things he saw.
I read, through blurring sight, Tara Heffernan, the blind art historian who writes about fine works with humour and humanity.
I sat, in endless hospital waiting rooms, listening to gorgeously textural soundscapes, wondering if I would still get to see any of my favourite sights โthose faces, places, objects most precious to me โ and for how long. If I might look upon them one last time before the light fades.
A friend who explained why she was so content with a seemingly unsuitable lover:
He sees me.
A favoured uncle who, whenever you tell him itโs nice to see him, will always reply:
Itโs nice to be seen.
What does it really mean to see?
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